Moment

It is a beautiful, warm spring day. What else can possibly matter?

Nothing. Just this moment. And this moment is one of gratitude for the warm sun on your face, the aroma of an awakening earth in the air, the simple steady beat of your heart during your morning walk. If it seems improbable that sacks of meat can dream and reason, this one moment unites both sides in something close to but not quite transcendence. Forever broken, in this one moment wholeness is tantalizingly glimpsed.

Pause. Do not move, lest the wreckage you've left behind falls forward and ensnares you once again.

We are always at the end of time. We cannot know the moment before us and we can no longer experience the moment behind us. We have only this moment. The now. And it cannot be measured or elongated.

Wreckage is not static. It mutates into shapes we struggle to understand. It will return in future moments with new designs on your heart.

It is a difficult task, to clean the earth with a single bar of soap and a coffee tin of lukewarm water. Humbleness in your weak arms. Life is a temporary connection between body parts. Carry your skin bundled up in your arms like laundry. Carry your skin so as to not drag it through the ash.

It is a beautiful, warm spring day. You will still die. Will your wreckage follow you through the veil?